Post by Fenris on Aug 6, 2012 17:22:41 GMT -5
Merchants come and go, but some things last longer. Of course, some merchants are not what they appear to be, and some have valuable items to sell. Fenris wasn't exactly somebody to sell; he would rather die than submit to that again, but once he had had a value. Not again. He awoke in a large wagon, surrounded by all sorts of items, some of them completely new to him, and jerked on his feet to peek outside if the city was in sight already. First things first, though.
He retrieved his sword propped against a wall, flexing his muscles all the way until he felt comfortable enough to take a peek. Abruptly a snow-white head appeared from one of the wagon's windows, looking all ways warily, his hair gleaming in the sunlight as if someone had set his head on fire. As abruptly as it had appeared, the head jerked back through the window to the cool shadows. It was nowhere near cool inside, but after the sun he truly felt as if it were cool inside. Suddenly a voice cried out something from the driver's seat.
"Val Chevin!"
Already? He had had barely enough time to flex his muscles... and nowhere near enough to truly wake up. Well, he wanted to get out of the wagon, even if it was hot outside. He still insisted on hiding his equipment under a travel-worn cloak, which even had a hood. It was the most inappropriate garb for the blistering heat, probably drawing more attention than his armor ever would, but he wanted to hide his lyrium-marks. Nobody could be allowed to see them, especially not when entering a city.
Had they spread the descriptions of the rest, too? Anders, the idiotic, suicidal mage, was surely hunted. More than he deserved, he was sure. And Hawke herself was nowhere to be found - the woman had seriously messed everything up. He regretted complying with her, much more allying with the fool mages. Burn them, they messed up everything! Mages and their bloody plotting, Hawke at the helm! He was a fool, then. He had thought he loved her, at least a little. Well, with her gone, he finally knew something worth knowing. She's like the rest of them - manipulative. Fenris had once heard how the Qunari treated their mages - caged and regarded as animals. Now, that would be worth something to see. Now if it would just happen somewhere else than in his dreams.
As the wagon rumbled slowly but surely towards Val Chevin, a lone figure withdrew from the carriage, adjusting his pace to walk alongside the wagon. Fenris sweated like a bucket of water under that heavy cloak and armor, the lyrium-marks only visible on his face. He thought that the sweat must've covered his face so entirely that spotting any features on it would be an impossible task. Or not. Maybe it just felt like that, or maybe it really was like that. Who could tell, without a mirror?
As they moved ever closer to the city, he paid mind to the exquisite patterns the sky painted. Birds. Clouds. The Sun glowing in the corner of his eye against the light-blue sky, it would've been a perfect landscape painting, he supposed, if not for the plain grey stone walls enveloping the city. He noticed how they made a rough contrast to all the things about them, but it didn't really bother him. He preferred practicality over aesthetics, always had, always would, and that's that.
They, he and the wagon's driver, approached the gates together. He eyed the guards in shock; one of them a templar, the second a guardsman clad in silverite; orlesians seemed to like silverite, and he found himself agreeing rather quickly. Silverite never heated much because it reflected most of the heat off, and it was extremely strong, only second to dragonbone. In fact, his own blade was silverite; dragonbone was incredibly hard to acquire, and more besides, he had developed an affection for his blade already. He enjoyed using it. Unconsciously he fingered the hilt of his sword as they approached the guards.
The templar waited for them to come closer, and as they approached him, he demanded their business in the city. When had they needed to explain their business in order enter a city? And templars as gatekeepers! He could just hope that his features weren't very well known - white hair wasn't common, but certainly not unique either? Instead of paying him any closer attention like he had feared, the templar just nodded indifferently as the merchant explained their business. A most kind man, this merchant. Kinder than most humans he had encountered, although he still had this strange habit of eyeing his white hair and lyrium marks like they could eat him at any time. He wouldn't have to worry about him while inside, though. Just the final resting place before going to Cumberland.
Walking on the broad main street, he could see the palace at the far end of it. Mostly because it was very bright, like a little sun. Suddenly he staggered, the light blinding him for a moment; why was the palace so bright? It couldn't be. He closed his eyes for a long while, leaning on a cool stone wall of some building. When he finally opened his eyes, he noticed a small, cool alley leading to another street. Unconsciously he moved over to the shade, sighing of relief, and pulled down his hood to cool his head down a little. It was too hot.
When had he last drank? Yesterday. Suddenly he realized that he was very thirsty; his throat felt dry, almost burning. Something crashed on the side of his head, and he staggered again on the brink of falling unconscious, but somehow he managed to cling on. Perhaps it was the pain that kept him aware of himself, but he whirled to face his assailer, feeling for his sword. He gasped as he fumbled the air where his sword should've been, anger turning to shock. A second blow fell on his forehead from a stout cudgel, and crushing darkness enveloped him. And even the darkness managed to be hot.
He awoke to great pain on his head. It felt as if it had been driven over by a peddler's wagon. How his skull was not broken already and he dead, he could not tell, but at least it was cool in there. Someone grunted behind him, spoke words to someone ahead, but he couldn't tell them apart from each other. His head ached so that he couldn't concentrate on anything, but at least he began to feel more aware of his surroundings. Slowly, but surely, he began to feel hard, plain wood pressed against his hands, cords of leather tied to his wrists to keep them on place, and same on his feet. Suddenly he remembered. How had he allowed himself to be ambushed so... easily? It was all he could think of for the moment.
He heard more words being spoken, this time in a more official tone, and then one sharp cry he could not comprehend. Head sunk almost between his knees, he still shook his head, trying to clear the throbbing pain from it. "...Go away, go away, go away, go away..." Abruptly he noticed he was muttering to himself, just before he felt a bucket of icy water being emptied on his head.
"Will you speak now?"
The sharp voice addressed him again, and he looked up, raising a defiant stare to meet this commanding voice. A grizzled man with a few gray streaks of hair amongst the black, he looked like your stereotypical Knight-Commander, radiating an aura of command. He met his gaze, and to his surprise he looked amused.
"Defiance. I expected just that from a notorious friend of maleficarum. Fenris." He talked about him as if talking about a pet dog of. Fenris felt rage swell in her, but the pain was more than a match to it. For now. A woman entered, carrying the sun and the eye embroidered on his coat with gold and silver, stepping with unbelievable grace. A Seeker of Truth, then. Well, if they wanted to know the whereabouts of Hawke from him, they would be in for a big surprise.
He retrieved his sword propped against a wall, flexing his muscles all the way until he felt comfortable enough to take a peek. Abruptly a snow-white head appeared from one of the wagon's windows, looking all ways warily, his hair gleaming in the sunlight as if someone had set his head on fire. As abruptly as it had appeared, the head jerked back through the window to the cool shadows. It was nowhere near cool inside, but after the sun he truly felt as if it were cool inside. Suddenly a voice cried out something from the driver's seat.
"Val Chevin!"
Already? He had had barely enough time to flex his muscles... and nowhere near enough to truly wake up. Well, he wanted to get out of the wagon, even if it was hot outside. He still insisted on hiding his equipment under a travel-worn cloak, which even had a hood. It was the most inappropriate garb for the blistering heat, probably drawing more attention than his armor ever would, but he wanted to hide his lyrium-marks. Nobody could be allowed to see them, especially not when entering a city.
Had they spread the descriptions of the rest, too? Anders, the idiotic, suicidal mage, was surely hunted. More than he deserved, he was sure. And Hawke herself was nowhere to be found - the woman had seriously messed everything up. He regretted complying with her, much more allying with the fool mages. Burn them, they messed up everything! Mages and their bloody plotting, Hawke at the helm! He was a fool, then. He had thought he loved her, at least a little. Well, with her gone, he finally knew something worth knowing. She's like the rest of them - manipulative. Fenris had once heard how the Qunari treated their mages - caged and regarded as animals. Now, that would be worth something to see. Now if it would just happen somewhere else than in his dreams.
As the wagon rumbled slowly but surely towards Val Chevin, a lone figure withdrew from the carriage, adjusting his pace to walk alongside the wagon. Fenris sweated like a bucket of water under that heavy cloak and armor, the lyrium-marks only visible on his face. He thought that the sweat must've covered his face so entirely that spotting any features on it would be an impossible task. Or not. Maybe it just felt like that, or maybe it really was like that. Who could tell, without a mirror?
As they moved ever closer to the city, he paid mind to the exquisite patterns the sky painted. Birds. Clouds. The Sun glowing in the corner of his eye against the light-blue sky, it would've been a perfect landscape painting, he supposed, if not for the plain grey stone walls enveloping the city. He noticed how they made a rough contrast to all the things about them, but it didn't really bother him. He preferred practicality over aesthetics, always had, always would, and that's that.
They, he and the wagon's driver, approached the gates together. He eyed the guards in shock; one of them a templar, the second a guardsman clad in silverite; orlesians seemed to like silverite, and he found himself agreeing rather quickly. Silverite never heated much because it reflected most of the heat off, and it was extremely strong, only second to dragonbone. In fact, his own blade was silverite; dragonbone was incredibly hard to acquire, and more besides, he had developed an affection for his blade already. He enjoyed using it. Unconsciously he fingered the hilt of his sword as they approached the guards.
The templar waited for them to come closer, and as they approached him, he demanded their business in the city. When had they needed to explain their business in order enter a city? And templars as gatekeepers! He could just hope that his features weren't very well known - white hair wasn't common, but certainly not unique either? Instead of paying him any closer attention like he had feared, the templar just nodded indifferently as the merchant explained their business. A most kind man, this merchant. Kinder than most humans he had encountered, although he still had this strange habit of eyeing his white hair and lyrium marks like they could eat him at any time. He wouldn't have to worry about him while inside, though. Just the final resting place before going to Cumberland.
Walking on the broad main street, he could see the palace at the far end of it. Mostly because it was very bright, like a little sun. Suddenly he staggered, the light blinding him for a moment; why was the palace so bright? It couldn't be. He closed his eyes for a long while, leaning on a cool stone wall of some building. When he finally opened his eyes, he noticed a small, cool alley leading to another street. Unconsciously he moved over to the shade, sighing of relief, and pulled down his hood to cool his head down a little. It was too hot.
When had he last drank? Yesterday. Suddenly he realized that he was very thirsty; his throat felt dry, almost burning. Something crashed on the side of his head, and he staggered again on the brink of falling unconscious, but somehow he managed to cling on. Perhaps it was the pain that kept him aware of himself, but he whirled to face his assailer, feeling for his sword. He gasped as he fumbled the air where his sword should've been, anger turning to shock. A second blow fell on his forehead from a stout cudgel, and crushing darkness enveloped him. And even the darkness managed to be hot.
He awoke to great pain on his head. It felt as if it had been driven over by a peddler's wagon. How his skull was not broken already and he dead, he could not tell, but at least it was cool in there. Someone grunted behind him, spoke words to someone ahead, but he couldn't tell them apart from each other. His head ached so that he couldn't concentrate on anything, but at least he began to feel more aware of his surroundings. Slowly, but surely, he began to feel hard, plain wood pressed against his hands, cords of leather tied to his wrists to keep them on place, and same on his feet. Suddenly he remembered. How had he allowed himself to be ambushed so... easily? It was all he could think of for the moment.
He heard more words being spoken, this time in a more official tone, and then one sharp cry he could not comprehend. Head sunk almost between his knees, he still shook his head, trying to clear the throbbing pain from it. "...Go away, go away, go away, go away..." Abruptly he noticed he was muttering to himself, just before he felt a bucket of icy water being emptied on his head.
"Will you speak now?"
The sharp voice addressed him again, and he looked up, raising a defiant stare to meet this commanding voice. A grizzled man with a few gray streaks of hair amongst the black, he looked like your stereotypical Knight-Commander, radiating an aura of command. He met his gaze, and to his surprise he looked amused.
"Defiance. I expected just that from a notorious friend of maleficarum. Fenris." He talked about him as if talking about a pet dog of. Fenris felt rage swell in her, but the pain was more than a match to it. For now. A woman entered, carrying the sun and the eye embroidered on his coat with gold and silver, stepping with unbelievable grace. A Seeker of Truth, then. Well, if they wanted to know the whereabouts of Hawke from him, they would be in for a big surprise.
